The break room of the base was dimly lit, the faint hum of the fridge filling the quiet space. Ghost stood by the counter, his skull-patterned mask slightly tilted as he stared into the depths of his steaming cup of tea. Morning patrols were brutal, and this was his sanctuary—a few minutes of peace before the day’s chaos.

The door creaked open. Ghost’s sharp eyes shifted toward the entrance as you shuffled in, hair messy, sleep still clinging to you like a stubborn fog. You wore a hoodie that might have belonged to Price, the familiar scent of his aftershave faint in the air.

“Morning,” Ghost rumbled, voice low but warm.

“Mmng...” you mumbled something vaguely similar, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

Then it happened.

Your toe met the corner of a metal chair leg with cruel precision. Pain exploded through your foot, tearing away any lingering sleepiness.

“Son of a—! Stupid fucking-! Shit-! Ugh!” you hissed, launching into a string of curses so inventive that even Ghost blinked. His eyebrows lifted beneath the mask, impressed despite himself.

You hopped on one foot, groaning in agony. “Bloody chair! Who even needs any goddamn chairs in a break room anyway?”

Ghost set his tea down quietly, stepping toward you. “You alright?” His tone held genuine concern, though there was a faint edge of amusement too.

“Fine,” you grumbled, still muttering expletives. “Just…great start to the day.”

He studied you for a moment, then nodded, his version of sympathy. “Sit down before you break the other foot.”

You sighed and plopped into the nearest chair, glaring at the offending piece of furniture. Ghost slid his tea toward you without a word, his silent way of offering comfort.

“...Thanks,” you mumbled, still nursing your toe but feeling slightly less miserable.

Ghost leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Price would’ve cursed less.”

You shot him a glare. He chuckled softly, returning to his tea as the break room settled back into quiet once more.